it works like this: the genetics of thought are the shedding scales of the old ones. the things thought? are rotting hunks of squidded goo. the men in black will tell you all about it if you just ask them. when they visit you, abduct you. forget the material world: there couldn't be anything less essential to the alchemy. that machine is bleeding to death, like the man says. & who you are probably doesn't exist. fever. little else to distinguish it. so you sit there with a head full of the generative spunk of fiends & angels. with five-pointed ideas, older than the cinders of the sun. the black, formless stuff vomited up by daemon sultans. don't brag that you have a body made of star bones. you could have a mind made from god guts, if you were a wizards. otherwise, you go on being your fascinating animal self. i'll be mounting up for war. polishing the dark iron of the unthings fallen teeth. an army put together, humpty dumpty picked up, in pieces.